


No Bold Villian

by subchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Puppy Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2028456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As if this somehow makes Dean any less of a man for enjoying his knees pressed to grimy, worn-down motel carpet, palms slick with grime, all packaged with a basic collar around his neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Bold Villian

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday present for Cho, which is a little belated.
> 
> This comes from an assortment of things. First, this sort of turned into an exploration of Dean's masculinity issues and how that transfers over into his enjoyment of kink. It sort of goes into how Dean's projection of a hyper-masculine personality could limit his enjoyment, how he often rejects feminine behavior, often in the form of making fun of Sam for what he perceives them to be, and how that would compete against his enjoyment of kink.
> 
> Second, I thought about how the Winchesters would go through kink negotiation, seeing how they have no experience, and how their lack of communication skills, i.e. talking about their problems to each other without being under extreme situations, would affect it. With Dean's refusal to talk about it, and essentially leaving Sam to trying to figure out what the boundaries are.
> 
> This is un-beta'd, so mistakes are all mine.
> 
> Title comes from 'No Bold Villain' by Timber Timbre.

It’s a small, circular dog collar that Dean finds most of his dismay and pleasure entwined so tightly between the tiny spaces of lightly-colored thread.

Dean doesn’t like to think about it, he doesn’t exactly welcome it with open arms.

He doesn’t welcome anything that reminds him of it, he spends time burying it under everyday objects, pushes it to the bottom of the minefield of guns in the back, thinks if he can cover with the smell of gun oil and the bitter metallic of machetes and knives, it’ll somehow lessen the impact of it on his mind.

So much discord scratches at Dean’s throat of a small dog collar.

Soft and delicate in nature, outstanding and large in its purpose, and all of it creates such a rush when it’s clasped around his neck.

Dean doesn’t say anything about it, this interest he has in a fantasy about being treated like a dog, and therefore, Sam doesn’t make him talk about it. It’s already enough for Dean, it weighs heavily into his skin in sharp points, threatens to pierce and well blood into the dips they create, all this conflict for seemingly nothing, but it’s nonetheless pungent for Dean.

Dean doesn’t know if this makes him any less of a man for enjoying it, loving the burn of his knees pressed against worn-down, dirty motel carpet, the bottoms of his palms pressed flat with dirt and grime clinging to his fingers, all to be balanced with the weight of a collar, as if allowing such an act upon himself is degrading to his masculinity.

There’s a leash that’s always buried beside it, black and thin and non-discreet, nothing fancy, nothing of high expense, but it’s enough. Dean thinks of it as grounding and trapping, keeping him in place, when it’s hooked into his collar, and stopping him from getting away, from rejecting its status as a dominant force in his life that he’d rather keep in the basement and unseen to anyone else’s eyes.

There’s such a conflict in Dean, the nature of what the dog collar and leash do for him, the warmth that curls along his veins and down his spine to settle into the spaces, a feeling that Dean hasn’t come to terms with.

He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t talk about it; and from experience, he knows Sam senses just how conflicted he is about this; Dean’s revealed very little about it, he doesn’t delve into how it makes him feel, unable to bring himself to confront just how much he enjoys parading on the floor, on his hands and knees, a collar and leash connected to his being, heat scraping through when he’s praised for being a good boy.

It was hard, telling Sam about it, told him that, “this is the only time I’ll say anything, so shut up and listen,” and with brief, clipped words, hesitant meanings, and Sam nodding along to every word, latching onto them, savoring a one-time truth, it’s enough for him to understand this weight Dean keeps on his back.

Dean won’t ask Sam to indulge this for him, as if inquiring for it makes it too real for Dean to deal with in the aftermath, being reminded of the very thing he wants isn’t what he’d consider normal. He won’t tell Sam beforehand, won’t do anything but let it happen, when his shields are down enough to not be bothered by his sense of person being affected by this… habit he enjoys, likes, even loves but doesn’t venture far enough into exploring.

It just happens in stages, when Dean puts on the collar.

 

 

\--

 

 

Some gas stop in the middle of nowhere that’s the foreground of farmlands and blue skies and over-ripened grass from too much rain. Sam’s got a vigil on the gas pump and thumbing through some nameless farmer’s magazine in his hands, curious enough to ward off boredom when the corner vision of his eyes spot the gas station’s doors opening.

Throwing down the magazine and his attention wanders from useless words about crop rotation and tractors full of instruments he forgets almost immediately with the view of Dean’s concentrated face and blueness of a collar circled around his neck. It forces a wedge into Sam’s spine, pushing him up straighter, and he knows to clamp his mouth shut, to not say anything while Dean brings this out into the open.

There’s these unspoken rules, these small changes that Dean implements that seems like nothing, they seem innocuous and plain, but Sam knows the severity of the situation, the steady grind inside Dean’s head coming down on him enough to stop him from wanting to handle things himself, opening and allowing Sam the delicate view of seeing him like this.

It’s never Dean who drives when he puts on the collar, all quiet and devoid of snark and retorts and it’s just a jarring thought for Sam—he’s quiet, staring ahead, slight tick in his jaw, and all the silence is to stop the mood from cracking and bursting all over Dean’s hands because it’s a nature Dean doesn’t allow, it’s what he’s against, that macho, hyper-masculine exterior Dean relies to on to keep pushing him through the life he’s come to know.

Dean likes it, he loves it, but it’s this dirty, nearly shameful secret he feels the need to bury in the back of the car, under a minefield of guns and bullets and oil and everything Dean uses to push his projected butch exterior, as if he can cleanse it in holy water and slick it with gun oil will finally make it innocuous to his carefully-crafted masculinity.

Somehow, like it’ll make him less of a man if he admits it in the open.

 

 

\--

 

 

Sam drives, he watches the Impala eat at worn yellow stripping on the road, scenery pushing past in slashes of blue and green and red splotches that means nothing since the redundancy seven hundred miles back, but there’s nothing to be said inside the car, only wind through the windows and too much oxygen, but words used to burn through it.

On the road since eleven forty-five and sun blindness becoming more of a problem, heading south with no real direction, at least, one that’s not spoken of, but they both know, waiting for Sam to pull off into an empty motel parking lot.

Dean still won’t say anything, and it’s strange, it’s all kinds of unfamiliar in tones Sam couldn’t describe with the perfect aesthetic, but Sam goes with knowing exactly just how much Dean needs him to be okay with it.

Sam’s thought of all kinds of ways to soothe what he perceives to be Dean’s nerves working until they stretch too thin and break. Dean’s about physical contact, each word he wants to say etched into the muscle of each movement he gives, and Sam often isn’t sure how far Dean’s boundaries are set, but he tries enough to be less imposing.

Sam huffs silently, trying to figure out the limits of Dean’s comfort, the extension of them, reaching his arm over with a sort of hesitance, and ignoring how unsure of this he is. His hand lands on the back of Dean’s neck, gauging the stiffness of Dean’s muscles to see if he needs to back off.

He tries to hide how tentative this makes him; he tries to will Dean to think he’s not uncomfortable with doing this, even if it’s just caution on figuring out how to navigate this and how far Dean is comfortable with this going. Sam knows his brother will torture himself with an endless litany of doubt and regret and guilt over thinking he’s pressuring Sam into doing this, carrying it out to fulfill his deeply-locked fantasy that he can’t get himself to admit he likes in fear of challenging what he feels like to be a man.

Small and black and smooth, the collar rounded to fit around Dean’s neck as Sam places his hand at the base of Dean’s skull, and it tells him everything and nothing at all, as if Sam is still treading shallow waters with too murky bottoms. His fingers push up the base of Dean’s skull, past shorn hair, settling on a slow, languid caress of his fingers across Dean’s head.

Sam does this for a few moments, waiting for Dean’s reaction, trying to not look away from the road for this reassurance that it’s not going awry, but there’s a movement from Dean, briefly tensing and that’s it, Sam’s gone possibly too far than Dean’s limits, but Dean’s relaxing, leaning back, letting Sam’s fingers press against him.

Sam’s not going to let Dean think he regrets it—Dean is too good at compartmentalizing, taking every bad thing and internalizing it into the worst possible thing to shame himself from ever doing something like that again, and it’s the least thing Sam needs to let Dean think about indulging his brother in these things.

Dean’s skin is warm against his fingers, sliding against the collar, through Dean’s shot hair, and this content fixed look on Dean’s face tells Sam he can keep this up, he can keep going to push Dean into a more relaxed state before Dean has any awareness of regret that could slide into the crevices between his joints.

Sam realizes at some point in the back of his mind, it plays into this simple, yet complicated fantasy that Dean allows himself to entertain rarely, and Sam wants this to work, he wants this to be what Dean needs, and he’s willing, more than, to give Dean everything he refuses to ask for.

Too much pride, insecurity, it won’t let Dean bend.

The landscape falls, rises, dips with green and blues splotches of watches with too tall grass around it, and it all molds by in swaths of color that looks formless, falling away to a background of sound to the allow this foreground of Sam and Dean to navigate this tricky, delicate situation.

Sam’s no farther along, not much to figure out exactly where he needs to start out with getting Dean relaxed.

Sam let his fingers dip down, in between the collar and Dean’s skin, twisting, stroking, pushing Dean all the more closer into that headspace he’s been seeking. Petting at Dean’s skin, pushing his fingers back up, curving over Dean’s skin, and finally settles on wrapping his fingers around Dean’s neck, thumb stroking, caressing, an anchor of comfort that he knows Dean revels in.

Sam’s presence is a soothing trickle against the back of Dean’s awareness, and Dean hums this quiet, content sound, rocks back slightly, allowing the press of Sam’s hand against him neck. This is a vulnerable position, at the skin of covering his spine, one of which Dean never allows to be touched so intimately in such a regular setting.

Sam’s fingers spread out, covering more skin, and Dean sinks lower into the warmth of physical affection is so openly displayed.

 

 

\--

 

 

Six thirty in the evening in room 12 at the end of the hallway of a blessed one story motel building, secluded, unobtrusive, enough cover for Dean to feel safe, in his way, to let himself prepare for it.

Sam and Dean set up for it, and Dean can sense Sam unsureness of the situation, he can tell by the set of Sam’s shoulders, the clipped glances, and for a moment, Dean wants to back out, he wants to have Sam reserve some form of respect for him—it must be out of Sam element when Dean gets like this, it must be weird, too weird for Sam to grasp just how much this means to Dean.

The leash in Sam’s hands stands stark, a simple reminder of what’s going to happen, and there’s a small bursts of heat at the edges of his awareness, minute and quick, but there. It affects Dean with two moods at the same time: anticipation, want, desire, with the dark sludge of shame, doubt, and unsteadiness.

Often Dean has some witty retort, crack the pressure with some smart ass comment to ease the situation into some able to be grasped, but this—there’s nothing for Dean to say, nothing for him to put into mundane words that can defuse this tension.

They both walk back into the motel, stopping in the doorway, the familiar stench of old furniture unwashed, grimy carpets, threadbare blankets, and everything else that comes with some no-name, one star motel situated where human life rarely travels.

It’s all the more better, where no one can find out Dean’s coveted, yet shameful secret.

Sam breathes deep while turning his body toward Dean, clutching the leash, and his hands reach out to Dean’s collar. The older brother tracks it, studies every twitch of Sam’s fingers, the level of nervousness that laces through the muscles, continuing to watch Sam’s fingers work to hook the leash into Dean’s collar, letting it uncoil to fall to the floor, the handle still fitted loosely in Sam’s fingers.

They both watch it, some fascinating picture against the bland, worn floral pattern of the welcoming matt against the doorway, in a way, waiting for the other to make the move, to start this charade.

“We’ve got the room for three days,” is soft from Sam’s lips, and Dean thinks he hides it well, the surprise that filters through his system. He and Sam never say much during the beginning, it’s as if they forget their voices exist, too caught up in what they’re about to engage.

“That’s… alright,” Dean ventures, his voice sounding rough, unused.

Sam moves first, tightening his hand over the handle and moves slowly, hesitating, waiting for Dean to react, looking for something, anything in Dean’s eyes that may suggest Dean isn’t ready to do this after all. Dean clamps down on the protest trying to break through his teeth, expanding, about to burst the walls of his throat with these unsure words about Sam not having to go through with this, that each time this happens, Sam has the choice to back out, he can drop the leash and head back to car, he can choose to leave Dean to his own demeaning fantasies.

Dean’s never sure if Sam is okay with it, he’s never sure if Sam really does feel comfortable with Dean on his hands and knees, sliding across nearly flat and bare motel carpet, leash and collar on proud display to never lie about what exactly is happening between them.

Sam must sense something, biting his lip, this brief nod of his head, and Dean inhales, tries to wipe his mind of everything, and begins to settle onto his knees. Dean is aware that this in the doorway of the motel room, wide open and barred to anyone who happens to look this way. Dean would never do this, with the possibility of people looking, staring, and thinking he’s a fucking freak for doing this, for loving it, cherishing it, yet, pushing it away and distancing himself from it without their knowledge of it taking place under his skin.

However, this motel looks so far removed from civilization, there are no cars in the parking lot, placed in the middle of endless corn fields and barren, backwoods nowhere-from-here roads. There’s nothing here to see him getting on his knees for Sam.

Knees placed against the floor, on his hands, staring up at Sam—it’s such a difference, the height of it, allowing him to take in the true size of his brother. It’s nothing too different, it’s nothing with a sudden drastic change in view, but he gets this idea of how smaller people feel. It’s the cause of a dull throb of heat to coil in his stomach.

Sam clears his throat, looks like he’s steadying himself before, “you ready to go in, boy?” and it’s not as strong as Sam wants it to be, Dean can tell, but he’s trying, Sam’s trying to build himself up to confidently executing this fantasy Dean has let Sam into.

Dean wonders if it’s worth the cost of Sam’s state of mind to have his brother guide him through this locked down fantasy.

Dean himself hasn’t slipped completely into the headspace, almost answers with this voice, with words of shaky encouragement or maybe even refusal, it’s still a war inside Dean before each rare session happens. He makes this small bark noises, as best as Dean can in his state of warring desire and revulsion at his situation.

Sam smiles, it’s unsteady at best, but he’s still trying to make it work.

“Let’s get inside, Dean.”

It’s a thrill, being referred to like an animal, a prized pet, and Dean can feel the beginnings of his dick filling, the tension that starts on a slow crescendo in his stomach, the trickle of adrenaline that sparks as his eagerness climbs.

Dean walks on his hands and knees, a little slow, still self-conscious of his position, inside the motel, the light weight of the leash swaying under him, creating a gentle tug on the collar he wears. It takes a little while, getting used to this position, this active relinquish of control to his brother, but Dean, in his ever present mind, tries hard to forget it.

The door shuts and it begins.

 

 

\--

 

 

Dean sometimes thinks the collar should have a nameplate, but maybe it’s better this way. A supple, dark basic collar, faceless and blank, and he’d press his thumb against it, wondering what a small, engraved nameplate would feel like under his thumb, if it would make this anymore real to him than it is.

Sam sits at the end of a bed, bottom lip between his teeth again, still unsure of this control Dean’s given him, and Dean is once again reminded of certain thought pressing around the soft parts of his mind, the need to reassure Sam it’s fine, everything is fine, it’s Dean who’s the freak, it’s Dean who can’t figure out where his person should stop, the extensions of himself that he doesn’t indulge in because of how much they make Dean feel like he should question himself.

Sam seems to be making an effort to shed out of the hesitancy that coats his skin, because he’s bending forward, hand stopping briefly before extending to Dean, a flick of his wrists and, “come ‘ere, boy,” falls soft and slightly more sure from his lips, and there’s an eager lick of heat down Dean’s spine.

Dean moves toward Sam, head arched and locked on Sam’s hand, until Sam’s hand is poised above his head. It lands, bushing over the short, cropped hair of his head, roaming to the back before turning counterclockwise. Sam’s other hand comes under his chin, nails scratching against the stubble grown there. Sam is mimicking the way he pets a dog on Dean, and Dean is relishing this comfort of Sam’s hands on him, twisting over his skin, his senses, this very calming effect spreading through his veins.

“Yeah, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” and there’s that low, soothing voice Sam takes on when he’s consoling someone, using it on everyone they need to solicit information from, and it’s such a different feeling when Dean hears it used on him. The praise Sam gives him, gentle, soft, no trace of mocking—it makes Dean feel light, clogs his throat in a need to push it away, but welcome it; and Dean tries to push down the need to spit a snarky reply.

Sam keeps smiling, tilts his head, eyes half-mast, like he’s starting to forget that this is Dean, this is his brother, fucked up and tattered and destroyed in the parts that count, on his knees in front of him, like he’s an actual dog, like Sam’s owned him for years. It’s a thrill, it’s a good feeling. Dean moves his head, goes to lick at Sam’s palm, and Sam huffs a laugh, low and light, allowing Dean to lick his palm.

There’s a persistent push at the back of his mind, trying to slip through his slowly blanking mind, trying to remind him of what he’s doing, the humiliation that is wedging into his system toward his persona, toward who he is, and the need to fight it is rising from the soles of his feet. Dean doesn’t want to think about it, he doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want anything to do with his usual self-inflicted destruction and decay.

“So good for me, aren’t you, Dean?” and it’s that soothing timbre of Sam’s voice that Dean revels in and falls into its saccharine sweetness and hope of him trying to ease the situation. Dean sometimes sees the flicker of hesitation, of not sure how he should approach, having to deal with the sudden power he has, and Dean wants to reach the mindset where everything can fall into place and proceed.

“Good boy, good boy,” and Dean sits back on his haunches, very aware of the collar, of his clothes. Sometimes Dean sheds his clothes before this begins, when he feels the need to be very vulnerable, other times, like this time, he needs his clothes, he wants to keep them on for longer.

“Come on, Dean, up, up,” is softly but urgent, patting the bed beside him, Sam looks at Dean. It’s not expectant, it’s not overtly commanding, like Sam is giving Dean the choice to back out, not go through with it, but Dean is ever determined to forget and swipe his mind of awareness. He climbs on the bed, and Sam pets at his back, hand skimming the curve of his spine, down the slope of his ass, and Dean feels that heated jolt slash through stomach.

Dean’s dick has been slowly filling, from the severity of the situation, from letting Sam command him, to his willingness to let this happen, to knowing what else will transpire. He knows Sam, with the right headspace, ensnared in the moment, he knows just how Sam can get, how he will get, and Dean anticipates those moments.

Dean tries to make this whining sound, as best as his building confidence allows, and Sam chuckles, stronger this time, less second guesses embedded in the gesture.

“What’s a’matter, Dean?” Sam continues as he’s still petting down Dean’s back, hand lingering on Dean’s ass, rubbing at it through Dean’s grimy jeans before repeating, and Dean tries to wiggle his backside, tries to mimic if he had a tail, and Sam gets that look on his face.

It’s the start of the main event.

Dean turns to try to crawl into Sam’s lap, arches his back and places his hands on Sam’s shoulders, thinks about licking Sam’s face like a real dog, but refrains. Sam laughs, like he’s enjoying this and Dean wants to smile because Sam is enjoying himself, and in turn, it makes Dean feel more comfortable.

“Easy, Dean, so enthusiastic today, huh?” and as Sam strokes down Dean’s back (more pressure in his stomach, in his balls, tightening and anticipating), lingering over his ass as Sam makes a noise of mock surprise.

“Did you get into my duffel again?” and Sam’s voice is light, teasing, but reprimanding, as, “am I gonna find my clothes chewed up, again? You’ve got a thing for my dirty socks.”

Dean nips at Sam’s jaw, as if to show Sam he did not do that—he’d never touch Sam’s dirty socks, thank you very much—and Sam just laughs again, continuing to brush at Dean’s lower backside.

Sam’s hands dip around Dean’s waist, toward the front of his jeans, and opens them, pushing at Dean’s jeans. “Gonna let me have my pants back that you took, too?”

Dean huffs out an enthusiastic noise, and Sam continues with, “come on, boy, lemme have my jeans back,” as Dean shimmies out of them, with Sam’s help of pushing them down. Sam continues to stroke down Dean backside, fingers pressing against Dean’s heated skin, and Dean breathes in quickly through his nose when Sam’s hands get closer toward his opening, when they slip against the slopes of his ass, pressing against where his cheeks meet, but Sam doesn’t go any farther.

Dean whines a little, almost begging Sam to pet him there, pushing back into Sam’s hands, but Sam only continues to pet him, never touching, never going any further.

“Know you wanna always be good for me, Dean, even if you keep getting into my duffel.” His voice is soft, still like he’s talking to an actual animal, which serves to push Dean’s arousal up through his veins, a languid burn through his system. Sam’s hands stop, hands on his ass, fingers parting through Dean’s cheeks, to stroke over the sides of his hole before pulling back, hands kneading back and forth, a steady push and pull of Dean’s cheeks.

Dean widens his stance, whines in the back of his throat, and Sam shushes him, lets loose low words of encouragement, how Dean’s the best dog he’s had, all the while he continues to stoke over Dean’s hole, the dry touch causing drag over it, and Dean can feel the unconscious twitching of it, of expectancy, and Dean wants more, he needs more than just that brief touch.

Dean’s cock is starting to produce slick, can feel it welling up at the head of his cock, and he wants to rub it against Sam’s clothed front, get himself all over Sam’s shirt, mark it like a dog would, and it’s appealing enough that he moves his hips until one of Sam’s hands moves. Dean feels the heated press of Sam’s fingers circle around his hips, under and over until it touches the base of Dean’s dick, curling around it but unmoving.

“Eager today, aren’t we, boy?” and it’s that fucking way Sam says ‘boy’ to him, and Dean whines again, goes to lightly thrust his hips until Sam’s finger pressing against his hole, nothing coating his finger to ease inside, but enough press to cause Dean’s breath to hitch, and Sam’s hand squeezes around his hardening dick.

“Good boy, good boy, such a good boy for me,” continues to pour form Sam’s lips, and it’s just this film of warmth coating Dean’s skin. Sam knows how much Dean needs this to be okay, a continuous litany of praise falling from Sam’s mouth that encourages Dean, and he tries to press into Sam’s hands, getting across the message that he needs more.

Sam gets two fingers between his cheeks, stroking the tips of them across Dean’s hole, the dry touch causing a good drag over it, and Dean wants to clench on them, wants them to push inside, fuck him raw until Dean can only tremble and shake and fall apart in Sam’s lap. He’d let Sam do anything to get those fingers in him, let Sam have anything in the world for those fingers, to reach inside him, touch him in all the places that can make him beg and whimper and arch for anything Sam has to give him.

Sam’s hand is still on his dick, his hand doing a light corkscrew-like rotation at the base of his dick, the slide of dry skin creating a light friction. Sam removes his hand from Dean’s ass, pressing his tongue to his fingers—Dean’s always made sure to clean himself when they do this—coats them with saliva, dripping down his fingers, curling around his skin as Dean watches it, anticipating, waiting.

They’re back to his hole, the slickness creating a glide over his hole, going in circular motions. Dean almost whimpers, tries to disguise it as a whine like a dog would, all of which Sam shushes him, telling him it’s going to be okay, Dean’s going to be okay, they’re gonna get through this, and Sam is gonna make sure Dean is well take care of.

Sam removes one finger before he presses it against Dean’s hole, letting the muscle open slightly before removing it, repeating until the spit he used to coat his finger starts drying, and the drag of it is good, but not enough.

“So fucking good for me,” and the fingers is back at Sam’s mouth, Dean watching again, before slicking it up and pressing it back to Dean’s hole, another session of rubbing around his hole.

“You wanna be my good boy, huh?” and Sam no longer decides to stroke his hole, removes his hand from Dean’s dick, starting to place his hands all around Dean’s body, ghosting over his clothed front, to his bare ass. Dean makes an affirmative sound, shaking in Sam’s lap, with each pass of Sam’s hands along his spine, inching closer toward his spit-slick hole.

Sam’s thumbs stop at Dean’s nipples, thumbs rolling over them, pressing his nails against them through the shirt Dean is wearing, flicking them across until his nipples become firmer, until Dean is rocking against Sam, cock finally pressing against his stomach with how turned on Dean is.

Sam coos quietly, pressing one of his thumbs against his tongue and returning it back to Dean’s nipple, repeating until there’s a wet spot from Sam’s spit against Dean’s nipple, becoming so sensitive that Dean arches, he moans.

“Love that, don’t you, boy?” and Sam is placing his hands against the bottom of Dean’s shirt, lifting it and throwing it somewhere in the room, forgotten, uncaring.

A hand is back at his hole, fingers wet and persistent, circling again, “been such a good puppy for me, always so good,” and a finger sinks in, first knuckle, and Dean’s stance widens more, whining again, going to lick at Sam’s jaw, which causes a laugh from Sam.

However, that finger slips out, and Sam grins, pointing toward the duffel on the floor, “go on, boy, and go fetch my duffel. Got some lube in there for you,” and Dean’s eager to do it, mind blissfully blank.

He crawls on the floor, aware of his dick, of Sam watching, his spit-slick hole on display for Sam, all of it for Sam’s watching pleasure. He dips his head in the open duffel, roots around with his nose, funding the lube and gathering it up with his mouth. Dean early drop the lube when he turns around, sees that Sam has pushes down his pants, hand curled around his dick, giving a light stroke.

Dean stomach clams up in arousal, so startlingly bright that he nearly sways.

He’s climbing back on the bed but doesn’t move to get back on Sam’s lap, instead he bends forward, folding his arms, pressing his front to the bed, all the while arching his ass back, presenting, acting like some animal in heat, wanting to be bred, wanting to be fucked. Sam’s intake of breath is a sign he approves, he likes it, and with his position, Dean can’t hide how much he loves this, how much he needs this.

Sam’s hands spread out against his cheeks, exposing Dean to the open motel air, his voice low, darkened with intent, “love my puppy so much, love that you’re so eager to please your master,” and it’s so fucking dirty and a shock to hear it from Sam, those words so foreign from Sam, the one he knows outside of the motel bedroom, and he pushes back, whimpers but tries to clamp down on it.

“I wanna hear how much my puppy likes this, wanna hear how much you love your owner,” and hot air ghosts across his opening, and Sam is so fucking close to him, so close to getting something inside him, and Dean just wants to thrust back against Sam’s face, ride Sam’s tongue until he comes all over himself.

Dean’s face continues to heat up with each passing phrase Sam utters, each piece of praise pressing under his skin, entwining into his system, and Dean is glad his face is pressed against the bed, where Sam can’t see it, can’t know the effect all this praise is doing to him. Dean has a good idea that Sam know what it does to him, he thinks Sam likes to use it to reassure him, to encourage him to get into the mood.

Sam’s hand closes around his hardened cock again, stroking downward from his position, and Dean moans, of which Sam comments, “love the sounds my puppy makes for me, letting me know just how much you need to be taken care of.”

Dean can tell Sam is caught in the moment, he’s turned on and allowing himself to revel in it, immerse himself in it, and Dean can’t bring himself to poke fun at Sam for speaking like this, no matter how tempting it is, with that red face and apologizing for the fact that he’s not really like that, but Dean is grateful, he’s glad, in the end, that Sam could get into what had happened.

Sam keeps stroking, he keeps pressing his fingers to Dean’s hole, stroking Dean’s dick, leaning down to mouth at the bottom of Dean’s spine, tongue licking broad bit small stripes across the heated skin, collecting salt from the sweat that’s collected there.

There’s a snick of a cap after Sam removes his hand, and Dean protests the removal of heat of Sam’s hands on him, until they’re back, lube-coated fingers pressing against his hole, wrapping around his length, both moving in tandem that Dean can’t help but rocking back on, needing the pressure, wanting it as far as it can go inside him.

“So eager for your master, aren’t you, boy?” Each time this happens, it’s such a shock to Dean’s system, the sudden turn from his everyday life, the completely leftfield feeling of it, and Dean hardly believes that it happens so easily. It’s always so difficult for Dean; it never gets any easier for him, no matter how many times it’s happened previously.

Sam’s fingers are pressing inside him, insistent, twisting, pushing, stroking, tongue pressing against his skin, pulling back to whisper endearments and compliments and praise into his skin, thick-hot, coating his bones and powering the ever-increasing arousal coiling inside his ribcage.

Sam’s fingers are gone, the sudden change of pressure inside him causes Dean to jerk, to gasp, and Sam’s suddenly in his frontline of sight, a hand soothing down the back of his hair, rubbing at his neck, and Sam’s face is close to his, kneeling partially to get on Dean’s level of sight.

“Do you want to be good for me, Dean? Do you?” and Sam says it so indulgently for him, with the sweetness of trying to comfort Dean, and Dean can’t pull his head away, he can’t hide the blush that heats his pores, that causes him to clam up unable to say anything.

Dean can only nod, an unsteady bark-like noise coming from his throat while leaning into Sam’s touch. Sam is smiling, soft, relaxed, comfortable, like he’s completely blocked out that he’s talking to his brother, his own family, like the important factor is not Dean being human. He continues petting Dean, down his shoulders, all the while pushing his fingers under Dean’s jaw, pushing his head up, and looking at Dean in the eyes, causing Dean to lift up off his bended arms to achieve what Sam wants him to do.

“I know you wanna, boy. I’m so proud of my puppy.”

Dean only groans at the praise, sinks into it, cherishes it.

”You belong to me, Dean, my good boy, my best pet,” and Sam fingers move from Dean’s shoulders, down his sides, curving under his chest to find his nipples again, rubbing at them again, adding enough pressure behind his touch, “these belong to me,” and he keeps going, thumbing at Dean’s nipples, scratching his nails lightly against them, rolls them between his thumb and pointer finger.

Sam stops again, standing back up to survey the wreckage that Dean’s body has become, all the while walking around the bed again, languidly, drawing a hand down the curve of Dean’s bended spine, “this belongs to me,” and Sam’s hand brushes over Dean’s ass, of which Dean pushes back again, trying to get more of a touch, needing Sam to touch him more, and Sam’s hand stops over one of Dean’s cheeks, grasping at it, and, “this belong to me,” is gravel-bitten and thirst-filled.

When his brother’s hand brushes down toward his dick, grasping it, holding the thickened length in his hand, he leans in again, moving Dean’s leg, situating himself under Dean’s spread legs, that in response, Dean widens his stance, muscles trembling, the exertion he puts forth of to try to stop himself from moving, Sam utters a low, “and this especially belongs to me,” before he wraps his arms around the upper parts of Dean’s legs, pulling him forward to get Dean’s dick in his mouth.

There’s no better word for it, but Dean thinks he may have howled, voice bright and sharp, falling into the empty space in front of him as Sam’s tongue works around the underside of his cock, working around the skin, backing away briefly as his arms tighten around Dean’s legs, pulling him down closer, fingers pressing just above Dean’s ass. Sam mouths at the head of his dick, wrapping his lips to cover the head of Dean’s cock.

Dean’s hips are stuttering, trying to not push into Sam’s mouth, to fight the urge to shove his dick down Sam’s throat, choke him with it, feel Sam’s spit welling up around him, and come down Sam’s throat, hot and quick, bur he wants to be good for Sam, he wants to earn more of Sam’s honey-thickened words of encouragement and approval to wash over him, cleanse him, purge the stench of the brief trickle of doubt in his mind that’s still tried to linger.

Sam removes one hand from around his legs, reaching out blindly beside him until it’s grasping the still open lube, not caring as he pours it on the sheets beside him to swipe his fingers through it, unwilling to move his other hand from around Dean’s leg to maneuver some onto his fingers. Lubed fingers are pressing at his hole again, of which Dean wants to sob out his need when they press into him, the first knuckle like last time.

Sam removes them; all the while Sam’s lips create this good suction, pulling back before trying to swallow his dick down again. This time, Sam does remove his other hand, to wrap around the base of Dean’s cock, holding it steady, stroking downward all the while he licks at Dean’s slit, pressing his tongue against it, licking up the slit until he reaches the top of the head of Deans cock, pointedly pressing his tongue against where Dean’s been dripping while Sam’s finger shoves inside Dean’s hole, to the last knuckle.

Dean thinks he’d be content to come like this.

He can’t bend down on his arms, Dean’s chest would be pressed against Sam’s head, but his head slumps between his shoulders, arms shaking, fingers gripping at well-worn motel blankets, panting, huffing, and needing more air than his lungs can ever hope to pull in.

Sam pushes in another finger, goes to only moving his fingers inside Dean before moving his wrist, all the while he continues to lick at Dean’s arousal, humming whenever he wraps his lips completely around the head, twisting his hand at the base of Dean’s dick, stroking as he twists his hand, until Sam gets his hand to where his lips are.

There’s a curse at the end of Dean’s tongue, fighting to push through the spaces between his gritted teeth, and there’s probably ripping of the sheets he has clasped to tightly between his fingers. His brother works his fingers harder into Dean, thrusting, twisting, touching nearly all—

Sam’s fingers crook, press harshly against his inner walls, and Dean’s system crackles with heat when Sam’s finds that spot, immediately pressing sharp and harshly against it, moving his fingers back and forth, and moving his entire arm to thrust his fingers against that spot quickly, sharply, and Dean can’t help  the whimpers that sound from his throat, biting against the bottom of his lip, eyes pressed shut, trying to not spill forth the words that push up against the back of his front teeth.

Sam’s fingers spread wide, twisting his wrists to clockwise and counterclockwise, and takes Dean into his mouth as far as he can, and Dean thinks Sam might be trying to choke himself on Dean’s dick but his mind wipes clean when that tight suction combined with heat and wetness and fucking perfect pressure encases his dick, and Dean’s done for—he’s gonna come, he’s so close, with that insistent rub against his prostate, Sam’s mouth working him over and—

Sam’s mouth is gone, a hand squeezing the base of his dick, and no more fingers inside him which leaves Dean’s system reeling, jerks with the sudden surprise of it.

“My puppy only gets to come when his owner fucks him,” low, rough, and Dean’s reminded of how much he loves Sam’s fucked-out throat, the roughened, harsh edges it takes on after, but there’s a soothing hand on the outside of his thigh, rubbing, petting, and the older brother lets out a harsh sound of breath, still thrumming with his cut off orgasm.

“There, there, it’s gonna be alright,” is soothing, encouraging, as Sam’s fingers are back at his loosened hole, rubbing, but not pushing forward. Dean pushes back, so fucking needy with wanting Sam’s fingers back inside, those long, deceivingly delicate-looking with their elegant length, but it’s one of the most sure, sturdy things to ever touch Dean in all those places that make him arch and cry and nearly break with words of begging and need.

Sam maneuvers himself out from under Dean, snagging the lube while he rises. He’s coating them again and they’re back at Dean’s hole, pressing back inside, and Dean can’t stop the whimper that pitches forth from his mouth, head sagging between his shoulders again, tension from that position increasing.

“I’m gonna take care’a you, boy, I’m gonna make sure my puppy is happy,” Sam whispers into the skin on his lower back, kissing up Dean’s spine, light presses against the knobs of Dean’s spine the farther he goes up and pulling away. He removes his fingers, and Dean knows Sam is coating himself, can hear the slickness of Sam’s hand against his dick, can hear the squeeze of lube slipping through his brother’s fingers.

The reversal of that being said, of Sam’s low-heated words, of promise and reassurance, it’s spreads through Dean; it causes his face to heat up again. Dean’s heard worse, he’s heard absolute filth drop from his own mouth at greater frequencies and more heat. Bravado and confidence, that can singe the tips of people’s ears and turn away, but it’s just—it’s those words, lightly spoken, airy, full of promise that challenges Dean’s own threshold, and having someone else take care of him, having himself put in a place of not having to create a pleasure for himself, it’s a kindling kind of pleasure that Dean revels in.

The head of Sam’s dick presses against his hole and Dean jolts, lost in his own musings that he’d almost forgot his current position. However, Sam doesn’t push in, he doesn’t do anything but smear the head of his dick around Dean’s well-lubed opening, and Dean can feel it give when Sam presses against him, but never going in, never doing anything but lingering on the outside.

“I wanna hear you,” Sam says, and there’s that husky-rich baritone of Sam’s voice, continuing to spread more lube around Dean’s perineum, pushing slightly inside. “I need to know how much you want this, I wanna hear my boy enjoying this,” and fuck, Sam knows exactly how to exploit Dean’s needs in the best way to ensure Dean’s pleasure.

With a huff, a shaky breath in, out, Dean pushes back, whines in his throat, wiggling his ass to try to get Sam to stop fucking around. His brother chuckles, moving to get on the bed, pushing Dean forward a little.

Dean’s got this rush through his veins because Sam is mounting him, like a dog, like Dean some female dog and in heat, and he just wants this so bad, he wants Sam to push his face down into mattress, put him on his front, and fuck him unto Dean can only grasp and cry and arch back until he can feel Sam’s dick pressing into him and pushing out of his stomach, feel Sam deep inside, feel the grind of Sam’s hips behind him, the scratch of hair surrounding the base of Sam’s dick, everything Dean needs to have Sam as close and inside him as possible.

Dean makes all kinds of noises—whimpering and moaning and whining and all kinds of sounds stuck in his throat that he can’t voice into words.

“So good, boy, so good for me, my fucking perfect puppy,” and Sam’s hips twitch, and Dean can feel every minute movement, the slick slide of Sam’s cock in him, the stretch Sam’s dick forces his muscles to do, the accommodation that his body has to go through with. Sam’s hands slide up his back, around his sides, scraping by collected sweat, the slip-side of his fingers leaving a waste of scorched skin with raised goosebumps, until Sam’s hands grab at his shoulders (where a dog would place it’s paws when mounting, he’s reminded) and Sam breathes, once, twice, and moves.

Sam moves, a slow slide out, a drag against his sensitized inner muscles that has Dean moaning again, and the fingers on his shoulders turn to near claws, gripping as Sam begins to gain the confidence that Dean can take it.

“Good boy, Dean, taking your master’s dick, letting me own you, letting me take care of you—” is bitten off with more slurred words and grunts as Sam gains speed. Sam’s fingers grip at Dean’s shoulders harsher, each thrust sharp, pivoting, all of it building the tension in Dean’s stomach, clenching at each thrust.

Dean realizes later that he’s whining, high and desperate, with each thrust, with each press of Sam’s dick, each slick thrust shooting sparks of heat and pleasure racing up his spine. Sam’s hands shift, on top where his shoulder blades and Dean knows this is when Sam really gets into it.

Sam’s palms press him down, flat against his shoulder blades, and Dean goes willingly, as Sam thrust harder, harsher, sharper, where Dean can feel his chest sliding partially against the bed. Sam leans over him, lifts partially onto his feet, widens his stances and _thrusts_ , and a high sound of need and desperation comes from Dean’s mouth. Sam fucks him relentlessly, pointed movements of his hips driving Dean into the mattress, pressing down harder on his shoulders.

Dean’s knees press into the bed, can feel the small bounce of the metal spring mattress, like the bed his thrusting his ass up for him, the smooth sounds of Sam’s lube-coated dick pushing into him, leaving, and Dean wants to look back, wants to watch Sam’s cock in him, wants to watch Sam fuck him, wants to see everything Sam is giving him.

“Such a good puppy, such a good fucking—good puppy for me,” and Sam is letting himself go, he’s changing his angle every so often, looking, searching, and slows, thrusts long, hard, trying to get deeper, but not exactly putting in enough effort. He’s doing these languid, slow movements, while, “look at you, taking my cock, letting your master own you, letting me fuck that little dog pussy,” and shit, that collides into Dean’s own arousal, of which he tries to arch back on Sam’s dick.

“Gonna let me breed you, huh? Wanna give your master a litter of puppies, be such a good bitch for me, so fucking good,” and Sam’s going faster, fucking him with precision.

Sam finally finds it, that spot that gets everything to set his nerves on fire, and Dean moans, high and loud, and Sam keeps that angle, legs shifting a little, thrusting almost completely downward. Dean wants to reach for his dick, he wants to get off now, but yet, he wants Sam to get him through it, and he wants Sam to push him over the edge into the blackness and non-awareness of an orgasm that will blow his senses over into oblivion.

Sam continues to fuck him, and Dean relishes the slide of Sam dick in him, against his prostate, the feeling of Sam covering him, over him, heated and panting, calling him all kinds of endearments laced with smoke-filled tones and husky qualities, and Dean moans, letting Sam know just how much he appreciates it.

Dean’s almost there, so close until Sam retreats one hand from his shoulders to slip down his back, and curling around his hip until it closes around the base of his dick. Dean thinks he sobs out a protest, he can’t really tell, he can’t tell anything, but he can feel his orgasm right there, under Sam’s hand, clasped and hostage, and Sam whispers, whisky-roughened, “I wanna hear how much my puppy needs this, how much he loves his master’s dick,” and Sam’s hand won’t loosen, and he keeps fucking Dean, keeps up that harsh speed, though each movement becomes more jerky, more unsteady, which means Sam is close, with each pant and grunt.

“Tell me, fucking _show_ me how much you need it, _boy_ ,” and Dean cries out, loud and bright, sharp, clear, and Sam lets go, strokes from the base and toward the head, twisting his hand, thumb finding the slit, rubbing frantically before settling on stroking Dean toward orgasm, and Dean lets all of the noises of desperate need tumble forth for Sam to feed on, and with a twist against the head of Deans leaking cock, Dean lets out a desperate, whimpering moan and comes against Sam’s hand.

Dean’s awareness blurs, orgasms rushing and wiping everything, his sight fizzles out, a soundless yell pushing out of his throat, and Sam is still fucking him, hard thrusts against him, pushing Dean against the bed, into the mattress, sliding against the worn out motel blankets. Sam keeps stroking him through it, using Dean’s own orgasm to stroke him through it, until everything starts becoming too sensitive.

Sam comes, heat and warmth flooding Dean, stuttering in his hips, but Sam thrusts again, twice, three times before stopping, panting heavily, leaning over Dean to where his forehead is touching against Dean’s back, dropping back down to his knees.

Sam moves, causing him to thrust against Dean against, of which Dean moans. Sam pulls out, steady and carefully, the squelch of lube and cum easing the way out. Sam stays like that, pressed over his back, but his thumb rises and presses against Dean’s hole, rubbing at Dean’s fucked-out hole, rubbing at the collected lube there, easing his own cum back inside Dean, which causes Dean to moan, reacting to the brief pleasure there, over-sensitized against his skin.

Sam continues to play with it, like he’s trying to rube himself into Dean skin, trying to make sure Dean never forgets it. His thumb dips inside, working up a light thrust, and Dean feels the displacement of all the liquid inside him, feels it squeeze past Sam’s thumb to slightly drip down his used hole. Dean pushes back, and Sam mutters a curse, pulling back to watch Dean push out the lube and cum inside him, and Sam goes to rub it back around Dean’s hole again, watching, staring, of which it’s ridiculous, but Dean feels so exposed, he feels open, but for now, he doesn’t mind it.

Sam removes his thumb, as Dean’s sure Sam is wiping it off on the bed, hands roaming around Dean’s back, up to his neck, around the collar—Dean had forgotten it was there, but can feel the slickness of his sweat coating it—and his fingers dance around it, petting at it before retreating his hands.

“You okay?” Sam ventures, his voice a stark contrast from earlier. It’s softer, back to the level he uses to talk to witnesses, for consoling, and Dean sighs, an answer that’s apparently not enough for Sam. Sam’s off his back, hands under his hips, rolling Dean over for Sam to see his face, hands coming up to Dean’s face, thumbs stroking against his cheeks.

“You good, Dean?”

Dean stares at Sam, his content for the situation keeping away any uncomfortable feelings about this amount of intimacy, which Dean would, under other circumstances, would lighten with a joke or some other diffusing tactics he’s learned, but after these sessions, after he’s fulfilled his need, it’s… nice o lay here, letting Sam try to make his well-being is taken care of.

“Yeah,” is warped into broken glass because Dean voice was used for nothing but groaning and moaning and whining, and it must catch Sam’s attention. “I’m good, Sam. I’m… good.”

It’s the absolute content that ends up catching Dean off guard, with how his body is ready to sink into the clutches of darkness and non-awareness of the world around him, nothing outside of Sam’s hands on his body.

Sam must sense he’s not joking, he’s not deflecting, he’s not internalizing something terrible or his own unease, because he smiles, the light dig of dimples into his skin. Dean feels more confident, lifting a heavy arm to press his thumb against one of Sam’s dimples, stroking, just a moment of affection that Dean would never let himself do.

“I—” and Sam looks at him, with Dean seeing that Sam is trying to come up with a way to ease any type of lingering feelings of negativity about what they just did, “thanks, Sam. Just… yeah.”

“Is that your way of... saying you liked it?”

Dean would say something to that, he really would, but he’s happy, content.

“You wanna—” Sam breaks off with his fingers brushing up against the collar, getting his fingers on the inside through the space between Dean’s neck, and thumb stroking against the outside.

“I think—I think I’m good.”

It must surprise Sam, and it shows, but he leaves it alone, lets Dean keep this moment without saying anything else.


End file.
